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tiredandineffable · 5 years

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A Proposal

Now I’m Very behind on fictober, as this is still entry #7 (prompt: “Can you stay?”; I had to adapt this one slightly). This one just ended up being an immense entry for me with so much I wanted to throw in. It’s also quite possibly the longest single scene I’ve written in a good while.

This is a continuation of the past three entries (part 1, part 2, part 3). One part left, y’all!

A huge thank you to my amazing beta, @eunyisadoran, for all her amazing work! This chapter literally could not have been done without you!

Rated G.

Summary for the whole work: Aziraphale just wanted to get her parents off her back about her love life. She did not plan on falling in love with her best friend and fake girlfriend along the way. Nor did she plan on getting fake engaged. But such is life, she supposes. Ineffable wives, fake dating au that Escalates to fake engagement au. All around, a good time to be had.

..............................

2 Years Ago

“Did she say what she was looking for?” Mr. Eliot called, perching neatly on the stool behind the counter.

“Tolstoy. Zira dropped Sevastopol Sketches in the bath and she’s panicking because she teaches pre-Soviet literature this Monday, well before library hours,” Crowley explained, taking the stairs two at a time and all but throwing herself into the classic literature section. War and Peace, Anna Karinina, but where’s the rest? “Do you keep Tolstoy in Classic Lit, or is he under general fiction?”

“I’m afraid that whole second floor would be labeled classic literature if it contained everything I believed to be classic literature,” Mr. Eliot sighed. There’s the sound of another box of books landing on the counter and a smile tugs at Crowley’s lips. This place can’t fit any more books, but then he goes and buys them by the box full. “I keep popular Tolstoy works under classic literature, but Sevastopol Sketches is under politics. If it refuses to be found, I’ll come up. Can’t very well have you going home to Aziraphale empty handed, now can we?”

Crowley trailed her fingers along the spines, letting the warmth of the shop settle in as she worked her way to Politics. “Definitely can’t have that. I think the dissertation is already getting to her. You won’t believe how rude her advisor’s comments were. He claimed she was romanticising Oscar Wilde.”

When she found the book, the cover was torn and water damage had built up from what was likely years of reading in the rain, but it was legible and beggars can’t be choosers so close to a deadline. Knowing that nerd, she’ll probably just call it well-loved.

“Did the man not romanticize himself?” Mr. Eliot asked. “Was his entire life not one grand aesthetic movement? One decadence upon another?”

“Exactly!” Crowley wandered about the second floor, finding herself once again in classic lit. Victorian literature is comfortable, she realized, because it remains one of the only things she and Aziraphale share. She might never understand how a point in time so overstudied in literature could feel so personal, but it did, somehow. Ours, she thought, fingers trailing over a green spine with gold embossing.

“At times I wonder if this dissertation is about Wilde at all,” Aziraphale had said, closing her computer with the certainty of someone who has finished, but the sigh of someone who never will.

Crowley looked up from her book with a raised brow. “How is your dissertation on the translational history of Salome not about Wilde?”

“It’s so much more than that. The first English edition? Alfred translated it from Wilde’s French, even though Wilde could have easily translated it himself. To even accept its publication in Britain was to accept the censorship of its illustrations. It wasn’t true to the French version, the version Wilde himself had created. It was all a compromise,” she said. Aziraphale laid back on the carpet, short hair falling about her like a halo, and Crowley was acutely aware of the tightness in her own throat.

“But after Wilde’s death, Robert Ross took on the thankless job of purchasing back the rights on every one of Wilde’s works, including Salome," Aziraphale continued. "Cost him hundreds of thousands of dollars."

Crowley finally shut her book to lay beside her on the carpet, looking up to the ceiling to avoid staring right at her. Aziraphale was beautiful like this. Her usual perfect posture had been swapped out for a much more casual sprawl, a symbol of some unspoken trust. They'd seen the worst of each other, Crowley supposed, so letting her guard down made sense. "Seems like a lot of money to spend. Was he hoping for royalties?"

Aziraphale had lit up at the question, shaking her head and rolling onto her side to look at Crowley. "That's the thing. There was no promise the books would even still sell after the trial. But Oscar had hated some of the changes made for publishing and Ross decided to fix them after his death. Salome in particular. Robbie made sure the illustrations weren’t censored this time, confirmed that the cover was as self-indulgent in its beauty as Wilde would have wanted, took out Alfred's name. My dissertation focuses on the translation, sure, but it is a study in Ross’s choices, not Wilde’s.”

Crowley brushed her fingers along the cover, the floral pattern larger than life under her touch. A cover as decadent as Wilde would have wanted. The restored illustrations are in such direct opposition to turn-of-the-century rules of propriety that it's any wonder the uncensored form got published in Britain at all. From cover to cover, the only credit Crowley found was to Wilde; Alfred's ties to the play had been severed completely. Ross's choices.

It's a tribute, Crowley realized. In her hands is a testament to Ross's self-sacrificing love. It is the product of countless fights against King, country, and publishing houses until Ross was sure Wilde would have been pleased. All this done in the memory of a man who had never loved him back. A man who never would.

An act of self-sacrificing, unrequited love.

She paid for both books quickly and tried not to read too deeply into the purchase on the walk home.

……………….

Present day

“Don’t see why this couldn’t have waited,” Aziraphale said, brow raised to emphasize the edge of doubt in her words. Part of the benefit of their agreement was that they could toss ideas for their theses back and forth without having to worry about classes the next morning or Crowley’s commute back to her own apartment. That’s where they should be, sitting on Aziraphale’s bedroom floor, brainstorming or complaining about whatever it was they had to write next.

Instead, she’s sitting at the front door, straight-backed despite her exhaustion and tugging on her boots for an excursion that is likely not appropriate for the time of night. “It’s nine PM, Crowley. The bookstore closes in less than an hour and I am very certain that you can simply download Jekyll and Hyde online instead of harassing the bookshop owner who, quite frankly, is likely already at his wits’ end with regards to our visits. And it’s very unlike you to go out of your way to purchase a book.”

Crowley rolled her eyes, reaching over Aziraphale for her bag. “Firstly, download? What kind of English student are you? There’s no romance in sitting around with my eyes burning, reading on my computer like some amateur. There are notes to be made through the margins, stolen glances to be had over the top.”

“This isn’t Dead Poets Society, Crowley. I’m rather certain your romanticism is not worth the trouble to Mr Eliot.”

“He likes us, Zira. He’s probably bored. It’s why he always asks us about our theses and gives us discounts when we go.” She pauses then, squinting down at Aziraphale as she tugs on her sweater. “Wait. Are those my boots?”

Aziraphale considered it, looking down at the boots before getting up to smooth her skirt out. There are so many things she’d borrowed and so many things Crowley had borrowed in turn. “Likely. I don’t believe I remember buying them. Although that sweater is mine, so I’d say we’re evenly matched.”

Crowley shrugged, lips curling up in a way that leaves Aziraphale’s chest aching with fondness. She’s fond of the way Crowley turns and steps through the door, swaying as if she has both too many bones and not nearly enough. She’s fond of how Crowley all but swims in that sweater, of how she’s rolled the arms up neatly to the elbows in order to compensate for the size. Most of all, she’s fond of the unspoken intimacy they’ve cultivated over the years. She rarely lets herself dwell on that last part; no sense in misconstruing friendly actions for romantic ones when her feelings are so clearly not reciprocated.

The sweater suits Crowley, she supposes.

God, Zira, don’t focus on that either.

……………….

She stepped into the bookshop and immediately forgot why she had protested this book run. It is utterly deserted and blessedly quiet, filled only with the dusty scent of well-loved books. She has spent countless hours sitting amongst the books with Crowley, debating the potential symbolism of some minutiae of Atwood’s latest novel or the relevance of Orwell in modern society. The bookstore holds both her most infuriating and most beloved memories of Crowley, tucked comfortably between its floor-to-ceiling bookshelves.

In the middle of it all, Mr Eliot sits perched behind the counter, passively accepting the shenanigans and arguments with learned patience. He looks up as she and Crowley step in. “Ah, such illustrious visitors at such a late hour,” he says, looking up from a pile of collectible Beatrix Potter paperbacks. “May I help you find anything?”

Aziraphale shakes her head automatically, speaking before Crowley can start up an inevitably long conversation. There’s no sense in holding up Mr Eliot more than they already have. “No, no. Crowley simply forgot a book and insisted she needed it tonight. Apologies for the late hour. I assure you, we won’t be a bother.”

“Nonsense. You two are always welcome to come in,” he insists, returning his attention to the books, while Aziraphale turns hers to Crowley.

Crowley, to her credit, has made no move to engage Mr. Eliot in literary conversation. Rather, Crowley is already halfway up the steps, bounding up the stairs two steps at a time. How could anyone still be so enraptured by the subject of their dissertation after so many years? Aziraphale sighs, ignores the pang of jealousy, and ascends the stairs at a pace better suited to individuals who were not long-legged beanpoles. Maybe I should have focused on Victorian horror too.

Crowley looks over at Aziraphale as she finally reaches the top, a handful of books already in her lanky arms. All are clearly too large to be the sought-after Stevenson novella.

“How are there no copies of Jekyll and Hyde under classic lit?” Crowley asks, her shoulders back, and hips tipped a little too far forward. Forced nonchalance. Crowley’s tension is clearly the result of far more than just a misshelved book. Between the kiss and the proposal, Aziraphale has put too much on her shoulders and this is the result. Guilt settles into Aziraphale’s chest, stamping out the bookshop-induced calm.

“You check horror and I’ll check general fiction? It has to be here, Zira. I have to get this shit emailed to my advisor by the morning or he might literally crucify me.”

“We’ll find it, Crowley.” She bites her lip as she walks through the bookstore, finding her way through on muscle memory alone as she worries. Crowley had insisted it was fine, even talking her into the not-proposal. But Crowley always did this, sacrificing her mental health to save Aziraphale, and in the grand scheme of that week, it all made sense. Crowley had listened to the “80’s Songs for Self-Pitying Dumbasses” playlist no less than 14 times in half as many days on their shared account and Aziraphale, perhaps the true dumbass in this whole situation, had assumed Crowley was beating herself up over her latest publication draft. Aziraphale has to call this off. She can’t keep taking advantage of Crowley’s kindness.

Book first, sort-of-breakup second.

Stevenson should be an easy find. She brushes her fingers along the spines as she moves through the horror section. Jackson, Lovecraft, Poe, Rice, Shelley, Wilde.

Wilde?

She looks curiously at the misshelved book, running her thumb over gilded letters. Salome. The warm bookshop lighting illuminates the delicate gold floral pattern of the cover, brightens its soft green background, and Aziraphale’s hands shake not out of anxiety but out of overwhelming excitement. She flips through it with quick, light touches to the first few pages and inhales the words just as she exhales the breath she didn’t realize she was holding. She skips over decadent illustrations, over publication details. And, impossibly, there it is.

A Note on “Salome” by Robert Ross.

“Crowley!”

“Did you find it?”

Something drops out as Aziraphale flips through the book, and she reaches for it just as Crowley turns the corner. She looks...hopeful, worried. Aziraphale looked down at the small envelope and then back up to Crowley, tears forming in her eyes because this is it, isn’t it? The proposal, ineffably cruel in its perfection.

Because it is perfect. It’s intimate and thoughtful and literary. She has no idea where Crowley would have found this edition in such perfect condition, nor does she have a clue how Crowley would have been able to afford it.

And then there’s the bookshop itself. It has borne witness to their very history, from the earliest days of whatever this is, cataloguing every laugh and shelving every fight. If this were real, if Aziraphale and Crowley had actually been together for three years and Crowley had proposed right then, things would be fine. Because the library would have been theirs. Ours.

It’s where I fell in love with you. With your red curls and your too-loud laugh and the way you complain about books with bad covers. Its where I realized that every bookshop felt too quiet without your commentary. Did you notice how I dragged you here whenever I felt like shit, because I wanted my favourite person in my favourite place? How I snuck glances at you while you read because I’ve spent every school holiday over three years just fighting the urge to kiss you against the shelves? I have ached and I have ached and I have ached for any of this to be real, for you to feel even an iota of the love I do for you. I have done so amongst these books, these shelves, and these words.

And now you mock me with it.

“Crowley.” Aziraphale sounds about ready to break and she knows it. “Please tell me this isn’t what I think it is.”

Watching Crowley’s face in that moment is like watching a person simultaneously go through the five stages of grief. She wets her lips, parting them to say something but seemingly not finding the words, her brows furrowing only to smooth out. Instead, she stands frozen, sharp edges barely held together, quiet as if deciding how to act without pushing Aziraphale any further. She finally takes a step, tentative and awkward with stiff knees, looking down at her feet.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry for all of it. This isn’t how it was supposed to be.”

Aziraphale almost laughs despite the tears rolling down her cheeks. “Dearest Crowley, how the hell was it supposed to be, then? Had you intended to hurt me more, to make things worse? Was there some silly detail you missed that would have truly put the nail in this coffin? I can’t imagine there’s much else you can do to toy with my emotions. You truly did your homework, checked all the boxes. Bravo. Perfect show. You outdid yourself with this one.”

“Is that what you think this is? Do you think any of this has been easy for me?” Crowley’s entire demeanor has changed, her shoulders rising not with their usual anxiety but with the frustration that comes with years of suppressed hurt, exploding all at once. “I almost drove home three times this week because the thought of doing this and seeing you react the way I had imagined was excruciating.” Crowley reaches for the envelope on the ground and pockets it, not looking back as she walked down the stairs. “Congrats on somehow making it fucking worse.”

“Can’t you stay and address your mistakes like an actual adult?” Aziraphale calls back. She won’t give her the satisfaction of running after her.

“My mistakes?” Crowley stops on the last step at the bottom of the stairs. “Want to hear about my mistakes? I fell in love with you. Not even a year into this. I stayed because it wasn’t fair that you’d have to deal with your parents just because I got a crush. Then I stayed because I couldn’t risk losing my one shot at doing all the dumb little romantic shit that I wanted to do with you, even if it didn’t really mean anything. Then I stayed because I thought maybe, one day, it might actually mean something.” Crowley sighs, tugging her coat on a little tighter with her hands clenched in the fabric, her voice too thick. “So no, I won’t stay.”

“Would you stay if I said I did too?” Aziraphale doesn’t know where those words came from, how she spoke them so confidently despite her wet lashes and shaking hands. She takes a breath as she slowly works her way down the steps, leaning on the hardwood railing. Now she’s the one being overcareful, stopping a few steps short of where a tightly wound Crowley still stands. Aziraphale is suddenly very aware of how ready Crowley is to run.

“Don’t say things you don’t mean, angel.”

Aziraphale laughs, short and bittersweet. “We were here one night, just upstairs. Mr. Eliot said we could stay as late as we wanted so long as we locked up before going home. You wanted to power through, finish up some presentation in time to get comments from your advisor because you insisted we should get some time to ourselves on this trip. So you sat there and you worked, but I didn’t. I couldn’t, really, because I kept thinking of what it would be like to crawl over and just kiss you. Which is ridiculous, because we’d kissed a handful of times that day for show. But I wanted…” She feels the curl of her lips, a breath escape between words. “I wanted to kiss you until you forgot about that presentation entirely. Until it meant something to us both.”

Crowley turns a bit towards her, wiping roughly at her face with shaky hands and God, even looking like an emotional wreck, Crowley is somehow the most beautiful person Aziraphale has ever seen. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“You could right now,” Crowley says, looking into the otherwise empty shop beside her in a desperate attempt to avoid eye contact. The soft hiccuping breaths, a remnant of some shouting they’ve both come to regret, have squandered any attempts at looking cool and collected. Crowley is trying all the same. “Kiss me, I mean.”

“Could I, hmm?” Aziraphale steps forward, her pinky reaching for Crowley’s own. Crowley, to her credit, takes her whole hand instead.

“Better do it fast or-”

There’s a little choked sound from Crowley as Aziraphale finally presses in, letting her hand tangle up in Crowley’s curls, pulling her in as she’d only dreamed of doing for...God, too damn long. Her lips press in hard, a little too eager, but neither of them is up for complaining when this is so long overdue, and it’s all more than smoothed over by Crowley’s tender brush of a thumb along Aziraphale’s cheek. She had imagined how this might feel before, extrapolating from the limited data of their meaningless embraces, but she’d never before noticed the little things: the cherry taste of Crowley’s lip balm, the way she somehow eternally smells like coffee, the way she miraculously manages to be tender and hurried all at once. Too much and not enough.

She pulls Crowley in tighter but miscalculates the trajectory, accidentally bumping their glasses together. They’re both laughing by the time they pull apart.

“Wanna get out of here?” Crowley asks. She’s a little a little dishevelled and a little breathless, but she’s still brimming with her trademark teasing and Aziraphale wouldn’t have it any other way.

Aziraphale hugs the book to her chest. “Wherever you want to go.”

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